


and I still believe that I cannot be saved

by Anonymous



Category: Polygon/McElroy Vlogs & Podcasts RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood, Blood Drinking, First Kiss, Loss of Control, M/M, Mature Competent Highly Unprofessional Gays, Pat Gill is a Vampire, Sub Drop, Submission, Vampire-typical violence, aftercare??, allusions to dying, dubious kissing consent, hoo boy, lol, necking, the cure for vampirism is CAPTIALISM, very quick reference to emeto
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-20 02:17:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19984420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Brian's never had a vampiric coworker before Pat—well, that he knows of, anyway. Apparently, they'd been hiding in plain sight all over the place. He'd been as shocked as anyone else when vampires went public a few years back. Turns out, when you hit a certain critical mass of vampires, they just want to be able to go to the store and not have to do a murder, like everyone else.When Pat runs into a tight spot, though, and Brian knows he can help out, well. He makes some choices.





	and I still believe that I cannot be saved

**Author's Note:**

> me: I don't know if I can make this whole vampire thing as horny as it needs to be  
> me, 5000 words later: oh, no, we're good  
> me, 7000 words later: what if we make it whump??? yes, good.
> 
> With thanks to strongandlovestofic for the beta, and lily for the title, and gng4gu in general as usual for their enthusiastic handholding, buttpats, and salt containing. Couldn't do it without you.

Brian's gotten used to quite a bit of weirdness while working at Polygon, but turning a corner and walking straight into a murder scene is a new experience.

"Watch it," Pat calls out, stepping with supernatural grace over the little cones and the 'wet floor' sign and the wine-dark puddle spreading slowly across the linoleum. "I, uh, I spilled something; it's gross."

Brian steps back, gingerly checking the white caps of his shoes. "Oh, okay," he says, "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah, it—yeah," Pat mutters. "I just, uh, my… my dinner spilled, in my bag, so…"

Brian looks around Pat, quickly taking in the gory tableau under and around Pat's workspace. His messenger bag is open and empty, deflated, hanging from the corner of his standing desk and dripping. Its contents are piled up on Pat's desk, in various states of wet and red. The floor is smeared with more of it, demarcated with hazard cones in a wide margin.

"Do you want me to grab some paper towels, or something?" Brian asks.

Simone catches his eye and offers him a tight smile. She's got her feet out of her flats, knees pulled up onto her chair so she doesn't touch the floor. "We tried, and Tara yelled at us for being scabs _and_ walking biohazard incident reports."

Pat's shoulders are up around his ears as he gently pushes Brian away from the spill. "Janitorial's coming," he says, gesturing jerkily at everything. "They've gotta wear, like, gloves 'n shit. Special spray. It's fine."

"Yeah, it's fine," Brian echoes, tearing his eyes off of the vaguely menacing spread of blood across the floor, gleaming under the overhead fluorescents. It twigs something in Brian, some instinctual compulsion that both repels him and commands his attention. Looking for the source. Looking for the cause.

Pat's the cause, is all.

He's red, too: on his knuckles, and just a bit up his bare forearms. His hands move like he's gonna run them through his hair, until he catches sight of them and stops himself, letting his arms drop to his sides. Casual. Non-threatening.

"D'you wanna talk about the stream?" Pat asks, instead, and Brian jerks himself back to the conversation. Yes, actually, that was what he'd come over for; it's thirty minutes before the Gill and Gilbert stream and they usually do a tech check, make sure one of the daytime streams hasn't left the room in a state.

(Not like it matters. They leave it in a worse one, historically. But they try to start strong.)

But that's not what comes out of his mouth. Instead, what comes out is: "Are you gonna be okay?"

Pat smiles, close-lipped. He looks pale. "Sure, Brian," he answers, too smooth. "It's just like skipping a meal. I'll be a little punchy, but no more than usual."

Brian bites his lip, unconvinced. But then again, what does he know? He's never had a vampiric coworker before Pat—well, that he knows of, anyway. Apparently, they'd been hiding in plain sight all over the place. He'd been as shocked as anyone else when vampires went public a few years back.

Turns out, when you hit a certain critical mass of vampires, they start wanting the same things from capitalism as regular humans do, namely: not having to do a murder on someone every time you need to eat. Apparently, it's easier to just… pay consenting humans for their blood. Go figure.

Simone saves him from putting his foot in it by virtue of coming up to them and slinging an arm low around Pat's waist. She's got her flats in her other hand. "I'm headed out," she says. Brian stares at a ruddy mark on the toes of her dark hose. "I'm not getting any more work done today."

"I'm sorry," Pat says, turning to wrap the rest of himself around Simone in a hug.

"It's okay," she replies, and rubs her hand up and down the pilled fabric of Pat's sweater. They're almost of a height, the two of them, twin pale faces disappearing into twin manes of dark hair. "Try not to barf on people food today, okay? It's really fucking gross."

"I'll try," Pat says, muffled by how his head is turned into the crook of her neck. Brian can see the rise and fall of his back as he sighs.

Simone breaks the hug first, scritching his scalp before gently disengaging. Pat keeps his eyes closed for a few seconds until she's a few steps away, on the other side of Brian. When he opens them again, he blinks slow and languid like coming out of a dream.

"Go easy on him," she instructs Brian, who nods. She gives him a hug too, quicker, one-armed, before turning down the hallway with a jaunty wave.

Pat's got his hand over his mouth when Brian turns back to him, fingers pressed in so hard he can see the skin underneath turning white. "What's she know that I don't, Pat?" he asks.

Pat doesn't take his hand away from his mouth, but he laughs a little. More like an exhalation than a laugh. But he doesn't answer, even when Brian waits.

"Pat?" he coaxes, but Pat's shoulders come up and he looks away. Takes a step back.

"Just gimme a sec," Pat mumbles, from behind his hand. "Sorry."

"You don't have to keep apologizing, it's okay," Brian says. "Is it, um—" he adds, gesturing fangishly at his own mouth before realizing how potentially offensive it might be.

Pat's eyes close again as he sighs, his whole body slumping. He nods. "They'll go away in a second," he replies, and Brian can hear now the faint lisp of the way Pat's mouth is reconfigured around the fangs he's never seen. "I'm not, like, gonna vamp out on you."

"I didn't think you would," Brian says, evenly. It's only a couple percentage points of a lie, maybe. Pat's—Pat's normal, Pat's his totally normal coworker (and lowkey crush) who every couple of days needs to suck back a little Capri Sun pack of blood, that's all; he's never been anything else. Still, though.

Pat's hand drops from his face, finally, and Brian watches the bulge of his tongue run along his teeth. He shoots Brian a tight-lipped smile. "It's, uh... an automatic reaction. Simone, um... I'm just a little peckish."

"Can you eat?" Brian asks. "A burger patty, or something?"

Pat's smile quirks. "Usually? But if I haven't, um, had what I need in a while, my tum's gonna fuckin' riot first. So it's kinda like," he raises a hand, making a so-so motion, "eat something and feel like garbage, or pop a fang boner every time I get too close to a living person."

"Shit," Brian commisserates, "Neither of those are great on stream, Pat. Can we, like, order in? Can one of the interns bring you something?"

Pat shakes his head. "I gotta… I have, uh, a card I gotta show, like a weed license, and only a few places direct bill our insurance for it, and it's just—it's a real fucking mess, honestly, but it's my fault for putting too much heavy shit in my bag, and it's—" he pauses, just a second, to dig his thumb and forefingers into his eyes. "It's fine, actually, let's just get the stream over with, yeah?"

Brian thinks of—he thinks of all the ways he and Pat get in each others' space constantly on stream. The random nature of segments. How it's so easy, sometimes, to contrive to touch Pat in the ways he would like to off-camera; how his heart beats fast and audible every time he hopes Pat is doing the same.

Pat tries to walk around Brian, but in a flash of ill-conceived boldness, Brian maneuvers himself to get in the way. Pat stops, almost imperceptibly sooner than a human would. "Brian," he deadpans.

"What if you drank from the tap," Brian says, quickly, holding up his hands.

" _Brian_ ," Pat says again, even more flat. Brian can see his nostrils flare, just a little, as he purses his lips.

"That's a serious question, Pat."

Pat's brow comes down, half mean and half something else. Intrigued, maybe. Interested. Relieved. Brian holds onto that possibility. "It's not," Pat replies. "I don't—there's no one—I can't do that."

"But what if you _did_ ," Brian presses. He takes a step forward. Pat doesn't take a step back.

Pat's quiet a few long seconds. Brian's close enough he can hear the slow exhale through his nose, and—wow, it's kind of cool Pat still emotes through breathing, honestly, but that's beside the point, because Brian can see the tip of Pat's tongue where it comes out to wet his lips. The flash of his blunted teeth.

"I don't know," Pat answers, finally. "I've never done it."

"Get out," Brian says. His hands drop to his sides. "What—how? Really?"

Pat bites his lip, sucks it between his teeth. His fangs are entirely gone. "I was turned after vampires went public," he says, slowly. "Bunch of… bunch of asshole ferals got it in their heads that farmed blood was _domestication_ , and went around fledging a bunch of us in protest. By the time I woke up in the hospital after being attacked, I was already registered and legal. I've never had to hunt for food."

"Oh," Brian says. It takes a few seconds before he realizes he has nothing to follow it up. This is the most Pat's said about his condition _ever_ , essentially. It feels like privileged information.

Pat smiles, wan, and runs his hand through his hair. "Yeah. I've only been twenty-nine for like two years."

"I didn't know."

"It's nobody's business," Pat replies, but he doesn't sound angry. Just kind of resigned. "It's—it's just... medical history."

"Helluva pre-existing condition, Pat," Brian jokes.

"You don't know the half of it," Pat sighs, though he's smiling now. "I was pretty lucky; I'd just gotten on the group plan, so they had to keep me. Honestly…"

Pat pauses, looking over Brian's shoulder with a faraway expression. Brian can practically sense him walking back the conversation. "Honestly, it was kind of a me-or-Simone situation," Pat continues, "and my dickbag sire went for me. Simone's the closest I've got to someone who'd, you know, do that for me, and I couldn't ask her. She was there, you know?"

"Yeah," Brian murmurs, and Pat gives his head a little shake.

"So that's, yeah—I'll just deal with it," Pat says. He gestures to his face. "Just throw a little foundation on this pallor, good to go."

Pat moves to get around Brian again, and again Brian steps into his space. "What if you go fangs-out on stream," Brian presses.

Pat makes an exasperated noise. "I'll deal with it, Brian. I've gotta come out of the coffin eventually."

"Pat," Brian says, "Come on, that's a bad idea."

 _That_ makes Pat stop trying to get around Brian. He goes still, in that way he does when he can just… stop, entirely. "Didn't think you'd be the type, Brian," he says, deceptively light. "Don't want people to know you're friends with a vamp, huh?"

"No, Pat, no, come on," Brian says, doing a little stutter-hop to keep up with Pat when he slides into motion again, twisting around Brian on his way to the streaming room. "I'm, like, way proud of you—"

"Wow, thanks," Pat deadpans as scans his badge and hipchecks the door open.

" _Pat_ ," Brian whines, and something in the tone of his voice must get through to Patrick, because he turns in the doorway to level Brian with a cool, disaffected look. He reaches up to grab the doorframe with one hand, leaning in, looking every inch of his small height advantage over Brian.

" _What_ , Brian," he says.

Brian sets his jaw. Squares up, even though Pat looks fucking _huge_ like this, up close, pinning Brian with— _a predatory gaze_ is an uncharitable phrase, but Brian's reminded of a big cat, blinking slowly at something far beneath its concern.

"You should," Brian starts, then swallows. Corrects his course. "You can bite me, if you want."

Pat's head jerks back like a firecracker's gone off in his face. His hand slips from the top of the doorframe, down the side. "No, I can't," he says.

"Why not?" Brian asks. "It's not, like, illegal, right? Not if I offer."

"Because—you're—" Pat stammers, "Because you're my coworker, Brian, I can't just _take a fuckin' sip, babes_ when I'm feeling a little dead inside."

Brian licks his lips. "But you could," he says, "I don't mind. I'm offering, Pat."

Pat's hand comes up to cover his mouth again. He leans out of the doorway, looking up and down the open office space before stepping aside and ushering Brian into the streaming room. "Get in here," he mutters.

Brian complies, his stomach doing a weird adrenaline flip when Pat shuts the door behind him. Pat stares at the door for a long time, just standing with one hand on his hip and the other over his teeth. His shoulders go up and down, slow.

"It's… it's been a while, hasn't it. Since you ate," Brian tries, a guess that's confirmed when Pat's whole countenance droops as he nods.

"I didn't realize I was so hungry until this morning. Couldn't keep my breakfast down," Pat replies, still talking to the door. "So I went out and picked up a pack at lunch but it's—I hate—I hate drinking at work. I hate—being a—" Pat's breath hitches and he rubs his face. "I hate needing it."

"Pat," Brian starts, sympathetic, but Pat waves him off.

"So I can't just _drink from the tap_ , Brian, it's not that easy," he says.

Brian chews on his lip. When Pat doesn't say anything else, he steps forward. Not into Pat's space, not really, but close enough. "I'm sorry," he says, gently. "I didn't mean to… rub it in. You don't have to, if you don't want to. We'll figure out how to keep you fang-horny off main."

That makes Pat laugh, at least, hanging his head as he bites out a short little huff. Brian can see his face twist, in profile. "Jesus, Brian. Of course I… of course I _want_ to. I'm fuckin' starving, and you're like a... " He trails off, shading his eyes with his fingers. "Sorry. Gross. Vampire brain talking."

That's it, then. He knows how to convince people to go along with his crazy schemes, to do what they're afraid they _want_ to do—he's been doing that his whole life.

"Pat Gill," Brian teases. All in. "Are you calling me a snack?"

"More like a three-course meal," Pat mutters, then immediately thuds his head against the door. "Again, sorry. Maybe we should call off the stream. This is only gonna get worse."

"Or we could just," Brian says, "if you _want_ to, and I want to, we could just? Give it a try, you know?"

"Why," Pat says, plaintive. " _Why_ , Brian, would you want to."

Brian swallows. "It's not because you're doing a real good job of ensorcelling me, Pat."

"I can't do that," Pat mutters. "I'd have to be, like, way older."

"Come on," Brian coaxes. "It's like, I'd give you my sweater if you were cold. I'd cover your tab if you forgot your wallet. You're my friend. If I can help you, I will." He laughs. "What's a little bodily fluids between friends?"

"An HR violation, probably," Pat snipes, but there's a lightness in the corners of his mouth that wasn't there before. He pushes himself away from the door, straightens his sweater where it's rucked up around his armpits. "You're kinda keen on the bite, huh? Sure you're not a bat chaser?"

Brian makes the Boy Scout sign. "Uh-huh. One hundred percent."

"Sounds like something a bat chaser would say," Pat teases. One fang pokes out from under the twist of his lips, a flash of bone white on bloodless pink.

"Pat," Brian says, seriously. He reaches out and circles Pat's wrist—a calculated risk, but nothing compared to what he's proposing. Pat is… Pat is chilly to the touch, absent of the thrum of energy imperceivable in other living beings but the lack of which is impossible to ignore. "I just wanna help."

Pat's smile freezes, and his eyes drop from Brian's face to where they're touching. Brian can see his Adam's apple bob as he swallows, the entire emergent bit shelved and frozen in time like amber.

"Pat?" Brian tries, when Pat doesn't speak.

"Ssh," Pat hushes him, gently, turning his hand over in Brian's grip until he can do the same, long cold fingers wrapping around Brian's wrist and pressing in, leaving divots in his flesh. Brian lets go on his end and Pat's grasp jerks, his bicep flexing like he’d meant to yank but stopped himself.

Slowly, eyes still fixed on the white soft of Brian's inner wrist, Pat pulls Brian's hand to his face. At the last moment, his gaze darts to Brian and Brian finds himself nodding, wordlessly, not even entirely certain what he's agreeing to except for the fact that it makes his heart pound, nervous anticipatory sweat prickling at his hairline.

Pat's eyes flutter shut as he presses his open lips to Brian's wrist and just—

—breathes.

Just breathes. The fine hairs on the inside of Brian's arm prickle, then stand fully at attention, goosepimples racing up his arm and across his body.

He can see Pat's fangs, completely; they don't transform his face so much as they bring it into focus. Pat, in his whole self. They're not even touching Brian's skin. It's just Pat's lips, crushed against the thin flesh of his wrist, but even that point of contact is thrilling in a way Brian doesn't know how to categorize as fear, or desire, or both. It triggers _something_ in him, some ancient sleeping emotion from the Before, when a man knew to be afraid of the things that live in the dark.

Humans are foolhardy, though, and Brian has never in his life listened to the temperate voice in his head that chooses safety over sensation. As Pat takes one last, languid huff of Brian's scent—as his eyes slant open, far-away focused—Brian knows: he's all in, too, whatever it is.

"Fuck," Pat curses, barely a sound. Brian can feel the puff of air against his skin more than he can hear the words. "That's—Brian—"

"It's okay, Pat," Brian says. His voice feels thick in his throat. "You can have it."

Pat makes another noise like Brian's knocked the wind right out of him. He steps closer, until Brian's knees hit the arm of the streaming couch; he almost goes over, but for Pat's cold-iron grip on his wrist. And then his mouth is open against Brian's skin—lips and tongue and, god, yes, teeth, _fangs_ , still not biting, but Brian can feel the dull scrape of them over his pulse.

"Pat—" Brian tries, thinking maybe there's a better way to do this than still-standing, half-suspended over the arm of a couch, but at the sound of his name Pat lets out a moan of the kind that Brian's _never_ heard from him before: a soft, wrecked, helpless thing, like a man denied all pleasures but the memory of them.

Brian makes the executive decision to let gravity win, tipping them both slowly backwards onto the couch. Pat follows, still uncannily graceful, though the maneuvering jolts him from his trance enough that Brian can get a look at his eyes—irises black all the way around, a low-light creature. It's—it's fucking terrifying, in a beautiful way, deeply wrong and yet still _Pat_.

Brian shimmies up the couch as best as he can, and Pat settles between his legs, pushing one up over the back of the couch. "Whoa, hey," Brian jokes, weakly, "what kinda girl do you think I am? Buy me dinner, first."

Pat blinks at him, slow; smiles, slow. His mouth is two pointed darts, and _fuck_ everything else but the way it makes Brian so acutely aware of his pulse, everywhere in his body: from a pounding in his skull that makes his ears ring, to how it must thrum against Pat's fingertips on his wrist, to where it pools hot in his groin with undeniable, unmistakeable intent.

" _I vant to sack your blaad_ ," Pat intones, and Brian laughs, feeling a rush of guilty relief for the reminder that the man—the _vampire_ —between his legs is still Pat, in all his dorky colours.

"Everybody gets _one_ ," Brian says, and Pat's nose scrinches up in laughter, baring his fangs. "Wowie, those are—those are really something, Pat, how the fuck does that work?"

"I literally," Pat pauses to huff, exasperated, "I literally learned from a book. Like, a workshop: how not to fuckin' murder your friends and family, one-oh-one."

"Did you pass?"

"It was open book," Pat says, smirking, and Brian giggles. "I can… it said I can do it here," Pat continues, indicating Brian's wrist with a quick press of his fangs, "Or, uh, I can…"

Pat's eyes drop to Brian's neck, stretched out over the opposite arm of the couch, and Brian squirms. It's not that—it's not that he doesn't _like_ his neck being touched, it's just… it's just a _lot_ , how it just cascades right down Brian's body, straight to his dick. That's a lot to unload on a casual someone, even though—even though, god, he really wants nothing more than to neck with Pat Gill, without the fangs, someday. "I gotta—I gotta go on stream," he elides, and Pat nods.

"There's also, hah," Pat laughs again, "There's a huge vein in the thigh—"

"Talkin’ about HR violations," Brian cuts in, and Pat's nose wrinkles again.

"I think we're pretty fucking far down that road," he answers, indicating their… well, their everything, from Pat's thighs under his to the way Brian's wrist is still so close to Pat's mouth. Close enough to kiss. Close enough to bite.

Brian twists his hand around so he can cup Pat's cool cheek. "Here's fine," he decides for them, and Pat nods.

He tilts his head to take another hit of Brian's scent. "Have you done this before?" he asks on the exhale, eyes closed.

"N-no," Brian answers.

A shadow of guilt passes over Pat's expression. "It's… so the reason I haven't… is because, uh, it's not. Great. For you. At least, at first."

"I've heard that before," Brian quips, eyebrows wiggling. Their positioning makes it impossible not to _go there_. "It gets better if you stick it out."

" _Brian_ , geez, who the hell are you sleeping with," Pat wheezes, volleying the innuendo back, and Brian laughs.

"None of your business, Pat Gill," he teases. "Come on, gimme the bite before you turn into dust."

Pat shifts his weight on his knees, precarious on the cushions. "I just, wanted to give you a heads up. You might… you might feel the need to…" he looks at the ceiling, for strength, "...to fight back. It's instinctual."

"Can I hurt you?" Brian asks.

Pat scoffs. "No."

"Well, then," Brian says, brandishing his wrist.

Pat runs his lips against the soft skin. "You can. If you need to. Or want to. You won't be able to fight me off."

"Kinky," Brian smiles, even though his stomach does a flip that feels like it splashes out through his limbs. "My safeword is _banana_."

Pat blinks. "It's not."

"How would you know!" Brian laughs, punching Pat in the shoulder. "I contain multitudes, Pat."

"Jesus," Pat swears, and shakes his head. "Alright. Okay. I'm real fuckin' sorry if I fuck this up."

"Just do it," Brian urges him, and Pat's eyes drift closed one more time as he takes the meat of Brian's forearm between his fangs.

It feels, Brian supposes, like being bitten.

He's been bitten before, but this is—this is more, by powers of ten. His whole body locks up, first, just from the shock and the pain and the _wet_ , the disbelief of his brain trying to protect itself from the primeval horror of being fucking _eaten_. Then, the cold wash of adrenaline, spilling down his limbs. His free hand curls into a fist and swings, wild, reflexive; Pat doesn't even flinch, just grabs him by the flailing wrist and pins it down against Brian's chest, pushing him into the couch.

He can't stop writhing, the animal fear making his heart pound, surging more blood into Pat's biting mouth. Brian catches Pat in the ribs with his knee and Pat grunts, twists; Brian doesn't know how it happens but suddenly Pat's legs are on the outside, straddling him, his full weight pinning Brian to the couch.

He's well and truly wrestled; Pat's grip is like steel, inhumanly strong and unshakeable. The only thing he can do is make noise, and Lord, he does, whining through his clenched teeth as Pat takes, and takes, not just one neat Bram Stoker bite but a whole messy field of them, oozing red.

"Oh, fuck, oh, God, Pat," Brian gasps, and Pat's answer is more of a groan as he leans in, trapping Brian's forearm between his mouth and the back of the couch. Blood spills out of the place they're joined: rivulets running down his arm to dampen his sleeve, rolled up at the elbow; more dripping down Pat's chin to patter against his jeans.

Pat doesn't need to breathe—not truly, at least that's one thing he's said—but he breaks for breath anyway, gasping, red open lips pressed to Brian's skin. "It's..." he starts to say, but shakes his head, and licks up the length of Brian's arm where his blood spills messy and hot. He moans, instead, swallowing the noise against Brian.

The body can only lose so much blood before things get wild; surely Brian can't be there yet, but the headrush overtakes him without warning anyway, like the shadow of death, like someone walking over his grave, making his head spin and his skin prickle with cold sweat. His limbs feel heavy—distant—until they give up the fight, and he slumps boneless into the embrace of the couch.

Vision and awareness contract to just the place where Pat's mouth bites into him, everything else swallowed up by a cloudy grey nothing. Just Pat. Just the sluggish pulse of blood from the places where Pat's breached his body, and the drag of his tongue on his ruined skin. He doesn't even feel the piercing pain any more; it's all replaced with… with something Brian has felt only fleetingly in his adult life.

He's _content_.

He's read first-hand experiences of people who've been clinically dead, and, as someone with a fatalistic need to shove the whole world into his mouth before he shuffles off its mortal coil, he'd been comforted by the almost universal experience: once someone's brain has decided that it's reached the end of the line, the rush of endorphins it releases is the most complete feeling of contentedness they've ever felt. Like the completionist's fantasy: nothing left to be done. Just the peace of knowing your long journey is over, and you're going home.

He's pretty sure he's not dying, though, which makes the bliss suffusing his whole body even sweeter. In the ebb of panic and fear is only acceptance, and sensation. Pat's mouth against his skin. Pat, holding him down, unburdening him of choice. He lingers in that grey space, his feet dangling over the edge of eternity. It's fine. It's the most fine he's ever been. 

His eyelids are heavy, and his head even heavier. It seems almost more than he can manage, a herculean effort, but somehow Brian rolls his head to the side. Pat senses the movement immediately, his eyes—all pupil, still—snapping up to stare at Brian's bared neck.

"Pat…" Brian mumbles. His mouth feels paradoxically dry at the same time it feels like he might drown in this feeling. "Please…"

Pat's nostrils flare, like he's gotten the scent of Brian and won't stop until he's caught him again. He surges up, letting go of Brian's hands, pressing their bodies together as he descends on Brian's neck.

The bite is sharper here, more clear, but also more precise for the slaking of the worst of Pat's hunger already. He feels it, this time, two distinct pricks of bright pain that fade out almost immediately into another sublime rush of pleasure. Brian can _also_ feel his dick—confused, but valiant—leap where it's pressed against Pat's thigh. Unmissable, probably, but as far as embarrassments go, this one fails to pierce the rapturous veil entirely.

If anything, Pat gets _closer_ ; one arm going around Brian's back, hand splayed wide over his shoulderblades, the other hand wrapped around the sluggish drip of blood from the bites on his arm. Brian can feel Pat's tongue, sucking, licking, coaxing a hot gush of blood from his neck. He can hear Pat _swallow_. It's an intimacy that follows him down into the grey dark, a place absent of fear, or pain, or worry. The weight of Pat's body on his is like a faraway point of light, the sun at the top of a well that sinks deeper and deeper, taking Brian farther away from the surface.

He'd always thought that bliss meant _joy_ , like a firework burning bright and hot, but, feeling it now, he realizes the closest analogue is simply… comfort. In the absence of everything else, there's only a peace that settles deep in his bones, finds a home in all the places Brian's left open but it's never inhabited.

That's the feeling that eventually carries him forward on a gentle wave back to the shores of awareness, blinking his eyes open to the sight of Pat licking slowly, deliberately, up his arm, cleaning him up and coaxing the more ragged bite marks to close. When Pat's finished he just stays there, his lips still pressed to raw newly-knitted flesh.

Brian wets his mouth. "Hey, tiger," he manages, weakly.

It's not a stretch to imagine that Pat looks relieved, as he pulls his mouth away from Brian's wrist and moves so he's not pinning Brian down any more, leaning up to look Brian in the eye. He's—he's so close, now, his face taking up all of Brian's vision. "Hey," he says, so soft. "Are you okay? I—I have no idea how much… what 'too much' feels like."

"I feel great," Brian hums, and it's the wholeass truth; he feels as if he's run a marathon, as if he's pushed his body past its limits and found newer, more exciting ones on the other side. "Seriously, Pat, I feel—wowie, just, real good right now. Oh, hey," he sighs, "you've got red on you."

It's more than a little bit. Pat looks like he's bitten down on a costume blood cap. Unthinking, Brian licks his thumb—he misses his mouth, on the first go—and rubs it into the corner of Pat's lips. Blood smears away under his thumb. It's not for a few seconds that his mind catches up with him, alarms blaring both _that's your blood!_ and _you just put your spit on his mouth!!_ Pat doesn't pull away, though; he leans into the touch, it feels, and Brian—

Brian's in an altered state. That's the reasoning, he figures, for why he doesn't think twice about dragging his thumb across Pat's lower lip. It goes with him, tugging down, revealing the pointed tips of Pat's fangs. Brian feels Pat exhale, across the pad of his thumb.

He's—Pat's _warm_ , is the thing; warm, and living. Even his skin has a faint pink tinge to it, like Brian when he's eaten something spicy. He can't resist, then, pushing; his thumb slips between Pat's lips and Pat just… sighs into it, eyes closing, making his mouth go soft and pliant as Brian runs his thumb over Pat's teeth. Over his fangs. They're weirdly blunt; but he supposes it doesn't take much to pierce skin. He could do it, if he wanted. That's a thought.

He's not sure if he pushes farther or if Pat does, but he's surprised to feel Pat's tongue against the pad of his thumb. It's feather-light. "Oh," Brian breathes, and Pat's face goes through a complicated sequence of expressions before, finally, his lips close around Brian's knuckle and he licks, still slow and tentative, up the ridges of his thumbprint.

He's scared to talk, to break the delicate moment. He can see the spiderweb of blue veins under the thin skin of Pat's closed eyes, every errant freckle and hair, frozen in time at twenty-nine. Pat's so warm, not just his skin but inside, too, warm and wet and—just—Brian's dick had been kinda wary before but he can't shelve, now, the fact that he's _inside Pat_.

Not just—geez, not just his thumb, either.

He pulls. Pat comes. His hand falls from Pat's mouth in the second before their lips meet, trailing spit and blood across Pat's cheek, a detail quickly washed away by the release of pleasure that is _kissing Pat_. They're both too fucking messy for finesse; it's all lips and teeth and breath and—and Pat, pressing him into the arm of the couch, his hands coming up to cradle Brian's head. He tastes like metal.

Brian wraps his leg around Pat and pulls him closer, until there's no space left between their bodies. Pat is hot and solid and intangibly _alive_ against him, and just as hard—he moans into Brian's mouth as he grinds down, rutting against him, and Brian's fucking gone, lost to the heady pleasure sparking from everywhere they touch.

He can feel Pat's fangs, still not fully retracted to… wherever they go. He runs his tongue against them, tastes the shape of the noise Pat makes when he does. Pat must be being careful not to bite, but Brian can feel the nip of fangs on his lips anyway, a rush of hot wet copper welling up and filling his mouth, spilling into Pat's, messy and imperfect.

Pat's hand seizes his hair and Brian lets it, lets Pat jerk his head to the side and bare his neck again. "More," Pat growls, and Brian just nods, helpless, whispering _yes_ and _please_.

Pat's body surges against him, pulling him closer, wrapping him in an embrace so unbreakable Brian doesn't even try. He just relaxes into it, submitting with pleasure to the feeling of Pat's lips on his neck, to the scrape of his fangs as he lines up another bite.

And then someone's cell phone goes off, and Pat jerks back like he's been burned.

In the time it takes for Brian to blink, dazed, Pat's moved off of him entirely. He's standing, and he seems—so fucking tall, and so far away, and Brian's just… soup, basically, he probably couldn't get off the couch if he tried. Can't even lift his arms from where they're spawled, even though he desperately wants to touch, wants to reach out and pull Pat back because he's _warm_ , and Brian's so _cold_.

" _Fuck_ ," Pat curses, emphatic and dry. His hands go into his hair, carding tacky blood through it. "Fuck, fuck, _Brian_ —"

"Mmm," he hums in acknowledgement, rolling his head. "S'good, Pat, we're good."

Pat crumples, falling to his knees beside the couch. His arms wrap around Brian, lightly this time, as he lays his head on Brian's chest. "I'm sorry—I won't—god, look at you," he chokes.

Brian flops his arms around Pat, one hand by chance landing on his hair so he can sort of haphazardly stroke it. "M'fine. Just a little…" he has to take a breath, mid-sentence, "...woozy. Can you… turn off the alarm now please."

Pat shoves his hand in his back pocket, silencing his phone's alarm without looking at it. "Five minute stream alarm," he says. "We. God. We gotta clean you up, buddy. It's real rough."

"Thank you, five," Brian murmurs reflexively, and doesn't let go, so Pat has to physically extricate himself from the weight of his arms.

He scrubs at his beard, peeling off flecks of dried blood, trying to make himself somewhat presentable. "I'll be back. Don't move, okay? Don't get up."

Brian huffs, trying to laugh but falling short. "Don't think m'gonna have a problem, Pat."

Pat leaves, and when he comes back, Brian's managed to get himself to something like sitting against the arm of the couch.

"You dumb motherfucker," Pat greets him, without heat, immediately coming over to help Brian reorient himself so he's sitting properly. Brian lets the back of the couch catch his head.

Pat shoves a sweating bottle of Gatorade into his hands, helps him get it to his mouth. "Drink," he orders, tapping Brian's cheek when his eyes want to slide closed instead. "Drink, or you're gonna drown, come on, please. Can you hold this?"

Brian nods, because he can sort of manage if he props his elbow up on a cushion, and Pat gets to wiping him down with wet paper towels. Brian hisses when Pat runs the paper towel over the less-healed wound on his neck, and Pat curses in the same breath as he apologizes.

"Sorry, I—there's a thing in my spit that—but I can't get that close again, Brian, I don't trust myself," he grits out, patting gently at the bite, folding the towel, and repeating until it comes back clean. "Even if I did, there's still a gonna be a—fuck, I'm so stupid, I shouldn't've—everyone's gonna think you're a..."

"Kind of am," Brian reminds him, when Pat trails off. He reaches out and hooks one finger in the neck of Pat's shirt. "D'you wanna kiss again. That was nice."

Pat's expression twists, and he ducks his head so Brian can't see through the curtain of hair that obscures his face. "No," he mutters, and Brian's heart has the decency to beat a little faster.

"Oh," he says, blinking up at the ceiling. "Okay. I thought… I… I'm sorry."

Pat takes his ruined arm and pulls it straight, rubs it down with the paper towel. "Can we talk about it later," he says.

Brian nods, and wills his mouth to work and not just crumple up like it wants to. "Okay, Pat."

Pat finishes wiping him down with gentle efficiency. He unbuttons Brian's bloodstained shirt and wraps him in Pat's own hoodie—also bloodstained but at least black, so it won't show on stream—and fusses over the hood until it sits over the scab. Brian lets him move him where he wants: if not content, then at least willing, to follow his lead.

"Ready?" Pat asks, eventually. They're only about ten minutes late, tops. Brian wraps the hoodie around himself, suppressing a shiver, and nods. The show goes on.

"Yeah, hit it."

—

The stream goes okay.

It's not their best, for sure; Brian's quiet, and Pat's solicitous, neither of which make for good bit comedy. The weight of poorly-landed jokes piles up on Brian, worse than the fatigue.

At some point, their cunning plan to hide Brian's bitemark with a hoodie fails in the foreseeable way, and they just… have to ignore chat, after that. It's fine. Everyone can assume what they like about Brian, so long as they don't cotton on to Pat. At least it's mostly true.

—

Brian's aching by the time they sign off, stumbling over his words and so desperately in need of sleep, of _comfort_ , that he wants to cry. He's had two hours to button that up, though, and he's calculating the emotional resources necessary to keep it together for the commute home when Pat sighs and reaches out to take Brian's hand.

Brian just stares at it, his tired brain trying and failing to turn over like an engine in a busted-up car.

"D'you wanna go out," Pat asks. Brian doesn't even have to look up to know that Pat's not even looking at him.

Brian swallows. Sniffles. "I wanna go home," he replies, knowing he sounds pathetic.

Pat's quiet, then he nods. "Okay. Let me take you home."

—

So they go. It's past rush hour but it's still fucking New York and there's nowhere to sit, of course, so they have to stand, which is torture. At some point Brian must look as faint as he feels, because Pat takes the overhead bar in one hand and Brian in the other arm, pulling him in so that Brian's head is on his shoulder, and they ride like that the rest of the way.

Brian closes his eyes and wishes it was real.

— 

The walk from the end of the line to Brian's third floor walk-up is a stumble, with Pat mostly supporting Brian by the end of it. Brian fumbles the key in the lock and steps inside, starts taking off Pat's hoodie before he realizes Pat's not following. He's in the hall still, weight forward on his toes as Brian turns and shakily braces himself on the kitchen wall.

"That's true?" Brian asks, gesturing to the open doorway. "The whole…?"

Pat looks pained. "Yeah. And I can't ask."

He thinks, fleetingly, about shutting the door in Patrick's face, but the idea makes his stomach sink. "Come in?" he says, instead.

Pat shakes his head. "Doesn't count. You have to invite me—you have to—" he swallows, his mouth twitching. "You have to mean it."

Brian puts his hand on the doorknob. Pulls it open, just a little bit more. "Come in, Pat. Please."

Pat steps inside and returns immediately to Brian's side. "Which one's yours," he asks, fingertips light on Brian's sweaty back.

"On the right, closest to the living room," Brian answers, and Pat takes him there. Laura and Jonah's doors are closed, a few melancholy chords drifting through Jonah's. Pat closes Brian's door behind them as Brian sits gracelessly down on the bed.

His feet are—they're really far away, is the thing, and Pat must catch him staring at them because after he unloads two more Gatorade bottles from his messenger bag he comes over and drops right to his knees, untying Brian's laces for him.

"Thanks," Brian murmurs, but Pat shakes his head.

"Don't," he says, but doesn't elaborate. He takes off Brian's shoes, and his socks too, stuffing them in his shoes and putting them off to the side with care. Only then does he sit back on his heels, staring at his hands. "Brian, I—" he starts.

"You're sorry. I know," Brian cuts in, too tired to be diplomatic. "You've been saying it all day."

"I've been _fucking up_ all day, Brian," Pat bites out, finally looking up. "So I am, alright, I'm fucking sorry, and I'm gonna keep saying it because it's a bottomless black hole of _sorry_ in here," he says, gesturing to himself. "I'm sorry I didn't take care of myself, and I'm sorry I let myself bite you, and—and lost control, and—I'm sorry I kissed you, when you were—I shouldn't have—"

Pat chokes, a little, and rubs his nose with the back of his hand. "I'm sorry I took advantage of you, after. And I'm sorry I…"

"You're sorry you kissed me," Brian echoes, and Pat winces.

"I'm sorry I... wanna do it again," Pat admits, shame written large all over his face as he drops his gaze to the floor.

"Pat…" Brian starts, and Pat tries to wave him off again but Brian's stubborn; he just sets his jaw and pulls Pat forward, until Pat's between his legs with his face against Brian's undershirt, their arms wrapped around each other. Brian opens and closes his mouth a few times, trying out sentences in his head, but everything's too murky for the enormity of what he needs to say, for what Pat needs to hear. "Stay with me," he says, instead.

"Brian, I—" Pat begins to protest, but it's Brian's turn to talk over him.

"Please," he says. "Please?"

—

He lets Pat get him ready for bed. Lets him slip off his undershirt, strip him down to his boxers; lets him bring Brian his contact lens case; lets him plug in Brian's phone, and feed Zuko, and uncap a bottle of Gatorade and encourage Brian to drink it as he leaves to go wash his face and hands again.

Pat comes back with a wet washcloth and an apprehensive expression. "Here," he says, sitting down beside Brian on the bed. He folds it up a few times and puts it on Brian's forehead. "I know from experience the, uh, blood loss headache is pretty brutal, and you can't really take anything for it 'cause there's… less of you, now."

"Is that what that is," Brian murmurs. He hasn't opened his eyes longer than a few seconds in a while.

"Yeah," Pat says, apologetic. "Is there… can I do anything else?"

Brian shakes his head, wincing when it lances through his brain. "No, just…" he pauses, wetting his lips. "Pat?"

"Yeah," Pat answers. "Anything."

"Can you please? Can you—kiss me again?"

Pat's quiet for so long that it makes Brian's chest hurt. "You don't have to," Brian continues, quickly, "or it doesn't have to be right now, just—"

His breath catches when Pat's hand drops to the pillow beside his head, and the other, a moment later, alighting on the side of his face. This time, when their lips meet, it's so—it's so excruciatingly gentle, Brian almost doesn't know what to do with himself. Pat tastes minty as his tongue flicks against Brian's lips, and Brian opens to him, again. It's… tentative, and sweet, and… god, he wants more, but he can feel the hands of sleep pulling him down into the dark.

Pat doesn't push; he backs off when Brian turns his head with what he hopes is an apologetic smile. "Thanks," Brian mumbles.

"Thank _you_ ," Pat replies, so sincere it hurts, and leans in to press one more kiss to Brian's lips. He slips under the covers too, tucking himself against Brian's side. "This good?"

"Yeah, Pat," Brian yawns, pulling Pat's arm up across his chest. "Y'gonna be here when I wake up?"

"Of course," Pat says. He shifts so he can resettle the washcloth on Brian's forehead. "Someone's gotta put liquids in you."

"Ooh," Brian croons. There's a joke in there but he's struggling to find it, already free-falling backwards into sleep.

"Nope, you stop that. _Banana_ ," Pat laughs, chagrined, and Brian remembers smiling as he finally lets himself drop off the edge into a peaceful, healing oblivion.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!! The most wonderful thing you can do is leave a comment, I do so love our small, dear little fandom. <3


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